


Eye of the beholder

by zmeischa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Public Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmeischa/pseuds/zmeischa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://sansaxsandor.livejournal.com/309240.html">3rd comment fic meme</a>, for the prompt “Other people's reactions to the news that Sandor and Sansa have married.” Might not have taken that literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the beholder

They slowly walked towards the Father and the Mother, the bride’s auburn head barely reaching to her future husband’s shoulder. _Will she need to stand on some fool’s back to kiss him?_ wondered Tyrion. That was mean, and low, and useless, but he just couldn’t help himself. 

Clegane’s limp was almost painful to watch. It was probably due mostly to self-consciousness – Tyrion saw him several times before the wedding, and he didn’t walk half so badly then. A cripple, still. An ugly cripple into the bargain. On the other hand, he was tall, and that amounted to something. Mayhaps. 

Tyrion had never seen Sandor Clegane dressed so well. If you looked from behind and didn’t pay too much attention to the back of his head, you could easily take him for some handsome knight, clad in soft yellow velvet. And yet, the old saying that clothes make the man had once more proved untrue. No velvet, silk, or sable fur could unmake his terrible burned face. _A helmet might do the trick_ , thought Tyrion. _He should’ve gotten married in a suit of armour. Very manly, very imposing, and, most importantly, the helm would hide his face._ He touched his own face and scowled.

They still hadn’t reached the altar! The Hound stopped and looked around nervously, as if searching for an opportunity to bolt. 

“I bet he wants to run,” said some loud insolent voice, “just like he ran from the Blackwater Battle!” 

For a moment Tyrion was afraid that the voice was his own. Then he was outraged. How dare these people? He had a right to be mad at the Hound – he touched his face again – but surely not this rabble?! 

Luckily, the incident didn’t end in bloody murder, though the look on Clegane’s face showed that it easily could. If anything, it made the happy couple walk faster, and at last they made it to the altar, where they made their seven vows, gave their seven promises, and were blessed seven-fold. Tyrion of all people knew how little those things signified, but he kept silent. 

Edmure Tully removed his niece’s white-and-grey cloak. Clegane took his bride’s cloak from Loras Tyrell. His hands were visibly shaking, and when he unfolded it, Tyrion saw why. Someone exclaimed. The sept went silent. Then people started to snigger. 

It was a rag. Oh, sure, it used to be a cloak once, and a white cloak at that, but then it had been torn, and burned, and bled on, and washed vigorously, and, though some able hands had stitched three black hounds and several bundles of yellow grass on it, it was still a rag. There were paupers in King’s Landing who would disdain such a bride’s cloak on their wedding day. And Sandor Clegane was going to put this thing around the lady of Winterfell. Oh, that was rich! 

Tyrion swore under his breath. He knew where that cloak came from: it had been found in his wife’s belongings after she fled King’s Landing, and recently returned to her – along with some jewels, the rights to the North, her maiden status, and several other insignificant things. A white Kingsguard cloak, burned and bloodied at the Battle of the Blackwater. He heard this tale repeated in whispers all around him; he didn’t know which palace’s servant spread the rumour, and it didn’t matter now, when Sansa Stark decided to flaunt her shame in Baelor’s sept. She probably saw herself as some lady fair from a ballad, who married her true knight in his battle cloak, when all that time she stood next to the ugliest man in all the Seven Kingdoms, wrapped in a rag. 

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” rasped the Hound. And they were declared one flesh, one heart, and one soul.

***

“It doesn’t surprise me,” declared Margaery Greyjoy over the leek soup. “If his man’s parts are as big as his size promises, then I can easily understand why Sansa Stark wants him. Easily.” 

Her husband stared at his plate. Rumour had it, his own man’s parts were removed along with his fingers. 

“His cock should be the size of Maegor’s Holdfast to repay her for the loss of the North,” scoffed Harry Hardyng. “She could’ve taken a wet dishcloth and hit every one of her bannerman in the face, but she used this wedding instead. Twenty lords aspired for her hand, and she chose a dog. Well, she’ll pay for it. No Northman will let himself be ruled by the kennelmaster’s son.” 

Tyrion remembered that there was a time when Lord Hardyng himself had hoped to rule the North. It was nice to know that this wedding feast left a bad taste in more mouths than his own. “I think that it was a very clever move,” he said. “Any northern husband – it fact, almost every husband – would have taken that wardenship away from her and ruled in her name, but Clegane can’t. He is no one. He has no name, no power, no standing in the North.”

“Yes, exactly my words!” 

“That way she gets a husband and still keeps all her own power. She will rule the North as maiden Lady Stark, while giving her insignificant husband a puppy a year. Very convenient.”

Harry Hardyng tried to answer, decided against it, and sullenly proceeded with the soup. 

Tyrion looked at Sansa. She looked so innocent, as if she never thought about power, or her husband’s cock, big or small. She also looked very happy, as she fed the Hound hot bread, and slices of turnips, and creamed fish, and venison pies. She drank from his cup and made a face every time she did. 

“Who would’ve taken her, anyway?” said a shrill woman’s voice. “A lot of people are honoured by permission to take the king’s leftovers, but very few can stomach the remains of dog’s dinner. Even Tyrion Lannister didn’t find it to his taste.”

“Do you think?” said another woman, her voice soft and simpering.

“My dear, it is known. King Joffrey used to undress her right in the middle of the yard, in front of everybody. Can you imagine what he did to her in private? And he fed his dog from his own table, everyone knows that.” 

Tyrion gulped his wine. 

Music started to play, and the Hound rose heavily to his feet. _He isn’t going to dance, is he?_ wondered Tyrion. _With a leg like that…_

But it appeared that he was. 

“And I was just wondering why there were neither mummers nor fools at this wedding,” Ser Boros Blount sneered. “Well, this promises to be much more entertaining.”

To tell the truth, the Hound did look ridiculous. It wasn’t so much his limp as the fact that his arms hindered him terribly. He obviously didn’t know how to dance; he was awkward, he was a laughing-stock, and yet he persisted. Sansa looked at him intensely, her lips moving, as if she prayed. Tyrion tried to make out what she was saying. _“Mother, have mercy”_? No. _“Step, turn, right, front, cross your arms…”_ Oh gods. They had rehearsed the whole thing. She planned this dance, as she planned the stunt with the cloak. This was her doing, her victory, her pitiful, silly, indecent little triumph.

The music was over. Clegane grabbed his wife and kissed her. While he did it, he didn’t look awkward at all, and he seemed to know exactly where to put his hands. Then he returned to his place, and Sansa kept on dancing. 

“I hope he’s better in bed than he is on the dance floor,” said a tall girl with brown hair. Tyrion tried to recall her name. Alys Karstark, that was it.

“I’ll wager he is,” answered her husband. “He fights like a bear.”

“That’s not all that counts, Sig,” laughed the girl. 

“The biggest part of it. I’m a wilding, my dear, if I kneel to a man, he'd better deserve it, the way Sandor did. And when _she_ kneels to him…”

“Oh, shut up! And don’t step on my feet, please.”

Sansa passed from one partner to another, light as a feather and happy as a lark. Her pearls jumped on her breasts, which certainly had grown since her previous wedding. Tyrion caught himself staring, decided not to, and looked at the Hound instead. 

He was sitting all alone, fingering his cup, but not drinking from it. Tyrion suddenly understood that all the rumours were false: those two were not lovers. This wedding night was going to be their first night together, and the Hound was sick with worry. He wished to find courage in wine, but was afraid to get drunk and repel Sansa. 

“That is one lucky dog,” said a deep bass voice. “Not only does he get the North, he also married a one-woman brothel. She used to be Littlefinger’s mistress, and that man owned half the whores in King’s Landing. I bet he taught little Sansa a thing or two! A virgin by the words of the High Septon, my, my. I wonder how much _that_ cost.”

Tyrion drank.

He saw Loras Tyrell talking to the Hound. _If Clegane wishes to believe himself the Knight of the Flowers in the dark, he easily can_ , thought Tyrion. Loras wasn’t burned as badly as the Hound, but his good looks were lost forever and remained only in songs. His sister, Margaery, was dancing with some huge Northman and laughing. Somehow, she didn’t look very merry. Her husband was talking to a woman whose face was covered by a white veil. _Maybe he is not a eunuch after all_ , thought Tyrion. _People seem to say a lot of things nowadays, most of them untrue_.

Loras Tyrell walked past him, and Tyrion touched his shoulder.

“So, you are the Hound’s friend now?”

“He saved my life once,” answered Loras in a toneless voice. “It isn’t much of a life, but I suppose one has to be grateful for small mercies. And he doesn’t like to be called ‘the Hound’”. 

“Don’t you find it marvelous,” said Tyrion, “how people in this hall are genuinely happy for Sansa Stark and her husband? I heard so much sincere joy today that my ears positively tingle!”

Loras shrugged. “People always hate what they don’t understand, and love is the most incomprehensible thing for those who do not know how to love.”

“So you believe that this is neither a sly political move, nor an attempt to cover some sinister scandal? That it is simply a love marriage? How boring.”

“Yes,” said Loras, looking at his sister. “Very.”

“The Hound – Clegane – doesn’t look particularly lovable, though,” said Tyrion.

“And Lady Stark does? Well, things change. I remember the time when she was a hostage at the palace. Everyone agreed that she was very beautiful, polite and sweet-tempered, but also rather insipid, stupid, and quite boring. More fuckable than lovable, as Clegane would put it.”

Tyrion winced. “I had heard that he found faith, or peace, or something equally commendable. It is good to know that he didn’t lose his exquisite manners and charming freedom of expression.” 

“Oh, not at all,” muttered Loras and rejoined his sister. 

Tyrion looked at the Hound. Sansa was sitting in his lap and whispering something in his ear. _Fuckable indeed_. 

Pigeon pie was brought in. Tyrion could clearly see that this was one part of the wedding that Sansa Stark didn’t enjoy in the slightest. _If someone so much as coughs, she will have a fit_ , he thought, as he bit into his pie and choked. 

“Very funny,” said Margaery Greyjoy in a tipsy voice. “Very funny. Hilarious.”

Luckily, a bard started to play. _Florian and Jonquil_. It was not the best choice of song for this wedding, especially the part about how homely Florian was, but at the moment Tyrion was glad to hear it. Let someone else make a fool of himself for a change. 

“Bed them!” roared a drunk Northman. “Bed them! I want to see those luscious young teats!”

_Surely, she will balk at that_ , thought Tyrion, and then he saw her smile and realized that she was going to let it happen. A wedding and a bedding, up from the solemn blessings down to the ribald jokes, she intended to have it all. One could only admire such determination.

Clegane stood up.

“That is my wife,” he rasped. “Have your fun, but be respectful. Touch her the wrong way and you’ll lose your arm. Seven hells! Fuck you, woman, that is not your battle-axe!”

Asha Greyjoy laughed but kept her hand inside his breeches. “No,” she said, “it isn’t. More’s the pity. I cannot begin to say how I envy your lady wife.”

Tyrion stopped counting how many times today he heard people talking about the Hound’s cock. One too many, that was for sure. He could only hope he would be spared the view of the thing in question. And that hope was fading fast with every giggling woman who rushed to undress Clegane. The ways of the world were truly mysterious: the Hound had lived in King’s Landing since he was seventeen, in plain view, and in all those years none of these women had expressed a wish to tear his shirt off, or to look him in the face. But now they were all over him, laughing, screaming, touching his muscles and his scars and making bold jokes. What was it? The wine, the wedding, or the golden touch of Sansa Stark? 

“Enough,” he grunted. “Enough, I tell you! Bugger all of you! Give me my wife!”

Sansa emerged from the whirlwind of the Northmen, naked as on her name’s day. “Here I am, my lord husband,” she laughed. “Take me!”

The Hound took her in his arms and buried his face in her flaming locks. It looked like he was burning again as he carried his auburn-haired wife away to their bedchamber.

_Yes_ , thought Tyrion, _give him his wife_. He drained his cup and poured himself more wine, and the celebration continued without the lady and the Hound.


End file.
